Anne-Marie Meyer

There are two types of people in high school: the ones that you can date and the ones you can’t. Unfortunately for me, I’m the latter. Even though I’m around hot football players every afternoon, they are not allowed to date me. If they even come close to flirting, my dad, Coach “The Boss” Davis, makes them run laps around the field until they puke.

Nothing scares off a boy more than the threat of physical pain.

Not only has he forbidden me to date anyone at all, he’s even made me the football team’s water girl so that he can keep tabs on me. Apparently, over protective dad is a fabulous guy deterrent. Outdoor shops should find a way to bottle it and sell it. They’d make a killing.

What Dad doesn’t know is that I spend every last second of those two blissful hours of practice in the scorching California heat, staring at Tyson Blake. He is the epitome of perfection in a six-foot-two, incredibly toned, smells-good-even-when-he-sweats, senior body. And when he smiles, angels sing. Literally.

And Dad hates him.

It feels a bit cliche to say I fell for the one guy that would send Dad’s already high blood pressure over the top. But it’s true. There’s something about Tyson. Something he’s trying to hide. But I can see through his cocky persona and I know there’s something more.

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